


Teatime and other Gastronomic Moments

by fresne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blue Robe, Curry, Food Porn, Food Sex, Gastronomy, Good Taste, Honey, John's Jumpers, Last Chapter is largely PWP, M/M, Mocking the boys website design, Oral Sex, Past Tense John, Present Tense Sherlock, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7086763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact was that Sherlock wore silk robes, when he wasn’t togaed in a soft cotton sheet, ran his fingers over everything, slid his bare toes on the sofa in the most distracting way, ran his hands through his own soft looking hair, was… well, Mr. It's-All-Transport had a sweet tooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Brought to you by making tea a few weekends ago. I typed this out while drinking tea. In the eternal now of posting, I'm boiling water for tea right now.

The tap squeaks on. Sherlock lies extremely still on the sofa. He breathes in the scent of Boots' FAST Conditioning Shampoo in short shallow puffs. John's horrible, not horrible, shampoo. He waits.

John pours enough into the kettle for two cups. He never measures, but it's always the right amount. The right amount for two cups.

Sherlock does not relax because he was never tense. He has always been lying relaxed upon the sofa in complete comfort. It's just that John has been in a bit of a strop over the lampreys in the bathroom. For no reason. The lampreys were for science. It wasn't as if they were in the kitchen and John was in danger of eating them. John knew that. He'd clearly seen them in the bathroom where they were no danger to anyone. No reason to be angry. Which is why it was only reasonable that there would be two cups. There's a decisive squeak as John turns the tap off.

A sharp click. The kettle is silent for now.

Three steps from the counter to the cupboard where the tea is kept.

Where it used to be kept.

Sherlock smiles and brushes his bare toes back and forth across the arm of the sofa. His blue silk robe slides over his legs as he moves. A whisper of soft movement.

John grumbles from the kitchen as he moves tins and boxes. Finally, the irritable shout. "Sherlock, what possible reason could you have for moving the tea to the top shelf?"

Sherlock grunts the only answer that John will ever receive to this question. His smile widens as John opens the upper cupboard door and there's a further huff of irritation. He likes his John like this. His John? John is in Sherlock's flat. Their flat. Making Sherlock tea. Making them tea. Irrelevant. Soon - Sherlock's toes brush the soft texture of the sofa arm, the pillow of England rough under his cheek, and silk slides over his calves - there will be tea.

There's a creak in the floor. John stands on his toes reaching up to pull the tea down from where Sherlock has placed it. He grumbles about giraffes. Sherlock knows that his jumper is riding up his back to expose the soft smooth skin there. Sherlock has deduced it. The cool morning air of the kitchen is ghosting over that exposed skin. His belly too. Sherlock knows it is. It's all there in the creak of the floor and the required upward stretch.

John puts a box back and reaches up again. Sherlock bites his lower lip as the floor sings out again. Inhales the scents imbued in the sofa. Not the Tetley Original. A pop of a tin and a sniff. Sherlock nudges his nose against the back cushion where John was sitting last night watching something ghastly. Where only the two of them sit. The tin means Twining's' Assam. It reminds John of a friend of his from the RAMC. It reminds John of late nights. It reminds John of adventure and the desert.

Sherlock reaches down to brush fingers along the back of the couch.

The cupboard door closes. A grumble, but no rustle of clothing. The jumper, brown with a spatter of tan from where John used it nine weeks ago to deal with a slight incident with a beaker of citric acid, will still be ridden up over John's jeans. It's now evocative of desert camouflage to Sherlock. To John.

John's taken to wearing it when he wants Sherlock to find them a case. He wears it when he brews the Assam. When he wants something from Sherlock. Not the same things Sherlock wants, but something.

The kettle is roiling loudly now. The roar before the boil. The sound covers the sounds of John in kitchen. Sherlock resents the water. He resents the way it is roaring against the glass that holds it. Hides what he's trying to hear. Then the odd quiet that comes just before it is done. Boiling is so much quieter than getting ready to boil. There's a monogram in that.

The click that means the water is done. John hums under his breath as he splashes water into the cup to warm the inside. He throws that water into the sink. Sherlock tugs his robe back over his thighs and thinks about thermal reactions. The cup was cold. John heated it to keep the cup from prematurely cooling the tea. Now the water that flows into the cup will be tea.

There's a tear of paper. A tea bag gently lowered into the cup. John isn't interested in the tea ball currently jammed into the back of the third cupboard. Which is good. Sherlock is growing Galerina Marginata fungus in it. That tea would be the last they'd ever drink.

John repeats the ritual. It's the same, but different. He's rougher with his own cup. More careless.

Sherlock brushes his nose against the back of John's cushion, but knows better than to lightly lick it. That way lies tongue lint. Nothing good comes of tongue lint. Good will come of waiting. Sherlock doesn't want to wait, but tea like a suspect at a crime scene cannot be rushed. John will not rush it.

At four point five minutes, John removes the first tea bag.

Sherlock has yet to ascertain how John knows. He simply knows. He's done experiments in the past. The one where he crowded John against the sink while ostensibly looking for gelatin had been interesting. Sherlock wants to repeat it, but it would have little scientific value. He's already repeated it three times to always the same result.

John pushes him away and removes the tea bag at four point five minutes.

Sherlock adjusts his legs so his knees brush the back of the sofa.

Still science was about measured results with proven repeatability. Anything else was just - he held the word delicately in his Mind Palace - fucking around. He holds the word, but doesn’t climb the stairs of his Mind Palace to the bedroom in the tower where he deduces acts he's never done.

Soon there will be tea.

The faint clink of a spoon as John squeezes the last dregs of liquid out.

Sherlock holds his breath. He can never deduce by what rubric John chooses the way to sweeten Sherlock's tea. It's fractal chaos theory. There's nothing for it but to wait. Some days there are two splashing sugars. Some days, John warms a spoon in a splash of kettle water and stirs in a spoonful of honey.

The splash and clinking sound that follows indicates that today will be a honey day.

Sherlock sighs into the back cushion. A honey day with the camouflage jumper ridden up over the unsqueezable curve of John's uninterested jeans.

Three deep breaths and John stomps out of the kitchen. "Roll over." He waits six seconds. "I didn't make tea so it could go cold."

Sherlock does not roll over. He's rewarded by John's squeezing hand on his shoulder. "I can tell when you're not sleeping."

Sherlock grumbles as he turns. Seemingly careless as the silk slides open to reveal his legs to the cold air of their flat. John's jumper is still ridden up. A pink sliver of flesh is exposed under the brown and tan of the soft cotton weave. John holds out a cup. There's no sign that John's interested in anything but tea and cases. The work of a glance.

Sherlock takes the tea.

Tannins are bitter. Honey is sweet. John is expectant.

The pink tip of John's tongue unnecessarily wets his lips before he take a sip of his own cup. "I don't suppose you've got anything on."

Sherlock stares at him. He drinks sweet bitter tea. "I don't suppose."

John grimaces. He sits next to Sherlock on the sofa. Almost, but not touching. If Sherlock tilts his head, he can see the sliver of exposed skin on the small of John's back. There's a click as John turns on rubbish tv. There's a man screaming about kitchens.

Perhaps he will be murdered, which might be interesting since this show purports to be reality.

Sherlock drinks his tea.

The man is not murdered.

John sighs. He tugs his jumper down. He restlessly clicks the remote through channels.

Sherlock drinks his bitter sweet tea. He reaches around John for his mobile. That's why he left it on the far sofa arm. He could have John hand it to him, but then he couldn't slowly reach his arm behind John and get it.

John stops moving through channels. He sits very still as Sherlock reaches.

John licks his lips. He knows he's getting what he wants.

Sherlock is helpless. He's falling. Drowning. Drenched. Delighting in it. John is a perfect poison. Better than Galerina Marginata. The Romans could have invented him.

Unfortunately, there's nothing on the mobile.

Surprisingly, it's the television that provides something interesting. Sherlock whirls to his feet and points at the puff piece about the Marzipan gem. "A case, John."

John tilts his head. "Maybe pants first, yeah." He looks away. He always looks away. Sherlock tests and experiments, and John always looks away. "You uh… really like tea don't you."

Sherlock snorts, because John is being idiotic. But John wants a case and brilliance. Sherlock can give him that at least. Sherlock swallows down the rest of his tea.

He waits until John grins back and goes to pull on the Monday pants from the pants index.

They are red to match the ones that John is wearing.

 


	2. Gulab Jamun

Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days. Sherlock was amazing. Sherlock was an idiot.

"Indian." John didn't make it a question. It was not a question. Sherlock was eating. Full stop. End of sentence. Zed. He was eating something.

"I'm not hungry," came the utterly prattishly predictable reply. John ignored this bit of ridiculousness. He might be fine with playing the fool, but he was not an idiot. He took one step, two steps, three steps forward and was informed that, "but if you need to eat, there's a place four streets away. The owner owes me a favor." Sherlock adjusted his scarf to look more dramatic. As if he needed to look more dramatic with his hair and face and him. Any more dramatic and there would be declaiming in the streets.

John couldn't help the smile that took up residence on his lips. Sherlock rewarded him with a convoluted story that involved LSD laced walls, a woman lurking in a hedge, and a family curry recipe. Sherlock waved his hands. He spun around once. His coat flared. His scarf slipped back down and exposed the long line of his neck, which John was not going to stare at, because that way lay madness.

John was not mad. He was not an idiot. He couldn't help saying, "That's amazing."

Sherlock sniffed as if to say that of course he was amazing. As if he didn't immediately repop his coat collar for maximum peacocking.

John was still smiling fondly when they reached the Garden Palace, which wasn't much to look at. Faded sign. Crackling neon lights and plastic tables. A tv bolted high on a painfully white wall showing a colorfully dancing woman and her thirty closest dancing friends. A white counter with a glass case under which various brightly colored sauces bubbled with hidden veg and meats. It smelled amazing.

The middle aged woman behind the counter perked up when she saw them. "Sherlock!" She turned to call into the brightly lit kitchen behind her. "Chari. It's Mr. Holmes." 

Chari peered out from the kitchen. She said, "Pratima, you didn't mention that he was so…" She giggled behind her hand.

"Yeah, yeah." Pratima darted a look that took in all of John. "And I don't need to ask who this is." She beamed. "I follow your blog." She said over her shoulder. "Chari, this is John Watson. You should give him your Raj's number." John was about to protest that he wasn't gay and several other things, when she added, "His blog is needful of help." She turned back to John. "Chari's son, Raj, he does websites. Some UI design. He could help you setup an alert for when you update. Maybe a web service for an RSS feed." She shook her head. "Your site, it's… It's very 2005."

Sherlock, the git, laughed. He stopped when Pratima raised a finger. "Now, Mr. Holmes. I've already talked to you about white text on a black background. This is not 1999."

Chari giggled. "With that scarf, I think he uses Flash?" She framed her face with her hands. "Flash!"

Sherlock said somewhat desperately, "John is hungry."

Pratima winked at John. She said, "Then you have come to the right place." John suffered through a lecture about nutmeg, and managed to put in an order of rice, Saag Paneer for Sherlock, which he loudly protested that he would never eat, and a Lamb curry and Gulab Jamun for himself.

Sherlock grumbled, "I'm not hungry."

John ignored him. He took the firmly plastic wrapped paper tubs in their sack and collected his detective. His detective? Sherlock. His… John decided that he was simply very tired and hungry. That Cornish pasty had been over eight hours ago.

John was still firmly thinking that as he headed up the seventeen steps of home.

He put the Saag Paneer in front of Sherlock, who indeed did not eat it. As expected, Sherlock darted a fork across the table and stole a piece of fatty lamb from the curry in front of John. After two bites, John reversed the two dishes and ate the Saag Paneer as he'd intended. Sherlock used his fork as a prop almost as much as he used it to eat. He explained how the difference between French and Indian cooking was that French was about complementary flavors, while Indian was about additive flavors, which had its history in something that John didn't follow about the growing availability of spices in France in the 1700s. Mainly what John picked up was that French were pretentious cocks, which he already knew.

Sherlock waved his fork. He was brilliant. He ate most of the lamb and some rice.

John did not reach across to wipe away the sauce that clung to the side of Sherlock's mouth. He didn't groan when Sherlock licked it off.

Instead, feeling like a very, very bad man, John freed the Gulab Jamun from its layers of plastic wrap. The honey pastry was actually too sweet for John's tastes. But Sherlock, who called his body transport, who claimed eating, sleeping and breathing were boring, stopped in mid-stream. The fact was that Sherlock wore silk robes, when he wasn’t togaed in a soft cotton sheet, ran his fingers over everything, slid his bare toes on the sofa in the most distracting way, ran his hands through his own soft looking hair, was… well, Mr. It's-All-Transport had a sweet tooth.

Sherlock's fork took on a predatory angle.

John cut a small piece of the spongy pastry with the edge of his fork.

Serpent fast, Sherlock's own fork darted in and claimed the greater part. John raised his own smaller piece to his lips as Sherlock swallowed his own. Sherlock's ridiculous lashes fluttered a little over bright eyes grown soft on the sugary sweetness. Then there it was, the little sigh after he swallowed.

John licked his lips free of glistening honey while Sherlock did the same. The same heavy sweet taste in both their mouths.

They repeated this with the second sweet and by the third, John was thankful for long jumpers that hid interesting situations. The silence stretched as Sherlock communed with the universe.

John cleared his throat. "I'll make some tea."

Sherlock gave him a startled look before darting off to his room for who knew why Sherlock did anything reason. Mycroft probably, but John kicked thoughts of Mycroft down the stairs.

John went into the kitchen to make tea. Where once again the git he lived with had moved the tea to the highest shelf, which should irritate him, but made him smile. Had him glancing at the opening into the next room before quickly palming himself. Just an adjustment, before he virtuously reached up for Chamomile. Neither of them needed more caffeine.

That was all this feeling was. Caffeine jitters. Coming down off a case high. But this didn't feel like something was over. John warmed the cups. This felt like something starting.

All the more reason for the Chamomile.

John could still taste the honey in his mouth as he stirred a spoonful of honey into Sherlock's tea. As by some stray thought, he stirred some into his own. Even though he wasn't much a fan of sweets.

John emerged with two cups to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa wearing the blue silk robe and very little else. That in and of itself wasn't that unusual. Even given that Sherlock had been wearing a suit only a few minutes ago. No what was unusual was that Sherlock looked down and kept looking down, which was when John realized that certain interesting situations were still very much interested and very much not hidden by his jumper.

He waved the cups at Sherlock by way of something to do. "Chamomile, though I guess you deduced that."

Sherlock did not take the bait of a guess. Sherlock said in a low tone, practically a purr, "Sleep is boring."

John very much wanted to tug down his jumper, but couldn't given that he was holding two very hot cups of tea. "Sleep will do you good." He tried to settle on the familiar rhythm of saying, "You need sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up and as on previous occasions, John noted that there was strong evidence that Sherlock really liked… tea. Sherlock stepped very much into John's space, but John wasn't going to give way. He was standing his ground.

Sherlock's long fingers slid down the back of John's hand as he took possession of a cup. Sherlock raised it up between their bodies and swallowed a sip. He said, "You used the orange blossom honey."

John cleared his throat. "You said you like it."

"I do," said Sherlock. Standing well into John's space, he drank another sip of the tea John had made and looked at John with those ridiculous eyes.

John had a free hand now. His left hand. A hand that of its own volition reached up into ridiculous soft hair and pulled Sherlock's face down. What happened wasn't a kiss. People didn't trade sweet herbs and honey by sealing one mouth against another. They didn't explore the taste of spicy lamb against another person's teeth. They didn't swallow down another person's tea. Over and over until the tea was gone and the cups had fallen empty to the floor, and mouths had moved on to other explorations.

Sherlock tasted nothing like honey.

Although, later, much later, John drifted back down to himself enough to register Sherlock's muttering. John said, "Are you trying to div out if we're additive or complementary?"

Sherlock hummed from where he was exploring John's left bicep. "I'll need to experiment."

John fell asleep thinking that Sherlock really did have soft sheets.


	3. Afternoon Delight

John says, "Honey is not lube." John groans and wraps his hands tighter around the bars of the headboard. He's not tied down. They've tried that, but not this afternoon. He stays because he wants to do so.

Sherlock ignores the statement as obvious. He's already explained the parameters of this experiment to John, but John will keep ignoring them. Sherlock does take some pleasure - even though he's repeating himself - in saying, "Science is about repeatability. Otherwise, it's just… fucking around."

Sherlock also ignores John's muttered, "Like to get on with fucking around."

This is for science.

Sherlock brushes sage honey with the soft mink brush in a swirl on John's left thigh. He writes, "My John," in honey. His John in their bed in their flat after their successful completion of their case.

After extensive analysis, Sherlock has settled on using mink brushes. John responds to them much better than the synthetic ones. He's responding now. Curving his back and shifting his hips. Sherlock doesn't slap John's hip to remind him that he's supposed to stay still. He'll make John wash the sheets later.

John laughs. "I wash the sheets anyway."

Which must mean that Sherlock is speaking out loud, which should bother him, but doesn't.

When he's satisfied with the application on John's thighs, Sherlock selects a new brush and moves on to the orange blossom for John's cock. Delicate short strokes on the red head until it glistens like a treat. Although, with the red color, Sherlock thinks somewhat mournfully of spice.

"Yeah, you've mentioned. But anything with chili in it goes above the waistline, sunshine."

Then, wonderfully, a bead of pre-cum formed on tip of John's cock. Sherlock waves the brush in the air. "Salt!"

John laughs again. He's still laughing and groaning as Sherlock applies long strokes of the brush up the line of him. Round the curve of his balls.

Finally, Sherlock is finished.

He sits back on his heels and takes a moment to store what John looks like in the Memory Palace. An ever fragrant plate on a sideboard of the long dining room. He'd never had much use for the room until now.

Sherlock crawls over John. Not touching. A brush of his cock against sticky sweet. Just a brush. Sherlock's ignoring that for now. Now is about a dip of the tongue to taste the swirl of coconut milk curry in the hollow of John's throat. Entirely safe for using below the waistline. John's fingers tangle in Sherlock's hair. Twists. "This isn't what I meant by you need to eat." It's not an objection.

Sherlock explores the hot spiced ginger of the Murgh Kari curry over John's heart. The taste reads My John in spice until Sherlock licks it away. A word. A heart. So close to the scar that brought John to him. Not far at all really. Sherlock tastes them both. The hot ginger. The garlic. John.

"Yes, I know that garlic was used as an antibacterial in Anglo Saxon medicine. It was my maga… ah, Oh, God, how is that… do that again." Sherlock blows gently onto John's left nipple. He's already licked away the Phaal there. He swirls his tongue again and gets a touch of fennel.

Hands that can kill tug at his hair. Short blunt nails scratch at his back.

He's already explained that Phaal originated in Birmingham, which is fortunate. Sherlock can concentrate on every flavor. His tongue is burning with the tastes of John.

Thus the yogurt sauce at the slightly soft curve of John's belly button as a palate cleanser.

When every particulate spice is gone, it's time to move on. John shifts his hips in a not entirely helpful manner.

Sherlock will not change the steps of the experiment. First the thighs. Sweet and salt sweat. He's busy with the work when John says, "Sherlock. Just." He tugs on Sherlock's hair. Directing him to the glistening cock that's already dragged honey across Sherlock's cheek. "Suck it. Like… like a lolly."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but it's what he wants too. So he does what they both want. Orange blossom with bitter pre-cum salt. He licks up John's cock. Reversing the strokes from earlier. Sucks gently to pull the flavor from the treats of his balls. Drooling because there no way to do this with any dignity. Bobbing and sucking, John's hands twisting in his hair, John filling his mouth, there's nothing but John.

Nothing but John shouting and swearing bitter salt into Sherlock's mouth to mix with the sweet and swallowed down.

When John is done, Sherlock pulls away to watch. To record. To plate for later. He says, "Roll over."

But his John shakes his head. "Give me a moment to catch my breath." But when John's boring, not boring, breathing regulates, he doesn't roll over. He reaches down for a box next to the bed. Inside there's a set of jars. Pesto. Marinara. Garlic. Olive oil. John flashes a new smile in his ever changing face. "I'm in the mood for Italian." John pushes Sherlock gently onto his back and Sherlock lets him. Helpless before John's smile, he lets John curl his hands around the bars of the headboard and waits to see what John will put where.

John hasn't written anything down, so it's not science. Still, Sherlock shivers as John warms olive oil between his palms, slides them slick around Sherlock's cock, he doesn't entirely mind.


End file.
